


Steps

by lonelysailer



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Violence, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 00:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19779373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelysailer/pseuds/lonelysailer
Summary: “Do you speak Zemnian?”The man’s shoulders tense, his eyebrows curve upwards and there’s the slightest tilt to his head.The floor can only be so interesting, after all. Now the wall… much more enticing.“I’ll take that as a maybe.”





	Steps

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my mostly finished but unposted fics pile for a while. Recent events pushed me into posting it, as it happens when uhhhhh canon things happen and they have the same vibe as what you wrote.

The soldiers of the Aurora Watch surround the man like a swarm, whisk him away through the dark streets or Rosohna with the silence of a well-practiced exit. The Mighty Nein witness it all, following the prisoner to the dungeons on request of the Shadowhand.  
It does not take long for Caleb Widogast to figure out why.

They’re just outside the entrance when Essek turns to face them, raising a hand to ask for silence and attention. He does a once over of the group, and then his gaze settles on the wizard, all sooty fingers and palms covered in components.

“You spoke of your ties with their inner circles, yes? And of your training. ” Caleb nods, with far less conviction than he should have. “I have something to ask of you. Come along, Caleb Widogast.”

There’s no waiting for a reply— Essek turns without making a sound, and glides his way through the heavy set doors of the Dungeon on Penance. The Mighty Nein tentatively step forward, the epitome of a not-so-well oiled machine after the events of the last couple days, but Caleb’s grip is tight on Nott’s hand and she ends up yanked backwards instead. He looks so conflicted that she thinks his eyebrows would fall off if he were to relax his expression.

“Nein, I—“ he clears his throat, “He asked for me alone, so I’ll… go alone. Let’s not test their patience.”

There’s a pensive hum from Fjord as Caleb walks past him, and grunt of acknowledgement from Beau, who leaves him with a _be careful_ so quiet that he almost misses it, and then the door creaks and locks and he’s in here and they’re out there, and he can’t help but feel the coil tighten around his lungs as he wordlessly follows the guard that had so kindly been waiting for him.

It takes them 7 minutes to be allowed to the farthest section of the dungeon, passing through gates and doors where guards would inquire the human’s business, and Caleb would just straighten his back to shine light on the emblem on his chest and stride past without a word.

Essek is waiting for him in front of a door, tense and pensive, with an ear carefully turned to catch any whispers escaping the room— but it is dead quiet. The Shadowhand looks right through him, and Caleb knows, oh _he knows_ what’s about to happen.  
Essek had shown Caleb how he worked _his_ magic… now it was Caleb’s turn to return the favour.

They stand there in silence 1, 5, 10, _20_ minutes, during which Caleb just breathes and counts, thinks about his friends outside who are hopefully on their way home already, as far away as possible from whatever was going to be asked of him. He fears he might not be able to comply, not like this, not out of nowhere. Proving loyalties... hadn’t ended so well for him last time.

There’s a thud from the room, and the metal door slides open and closes with a shriek.  
The drow man who steps out is a bundle of nerves, tense and frustrated with a jaw clenched so tightly that it might crack. He sharply turns to Essek, and hisses a curse.

“It’s like his head’s on lockdown. It’s not a spell, we’ve checked. The little insect doesn’t even react.”

Essek nods, waves the other man away as he turns to face Caleb.

“I was thinking perhaps you could shine some light on this… _resilience_ of his.”

**-**

When he steps into the cold tiled room, the prisoner’s eyes are glued to the floor, to the particularly interesting spot between between his bare feet. He does not look up when Caleb walks around the room, the clack of the hard heels of boots pleasantly filling the air. The redhead hums in contemplation— he doesn’t need to try casting to know that magic is suppressed in this room. Charming someone… would not work. This really was a back to basics kind of challenge.

As he walks, Caleb takes his sweet time to think. The man’s hands are tightly bound, his lush coat and possession removed to leave him only in his shirt and breeches. His hair is light, curled in a pleasant wave that frames a face so fresh that it’s all roses and dewdrops— but he knows better. There’s a line of perpetual frown between the man’s brows, hands too soft and new to belong to anyone who gets their hands dirty, with fingernails filed too short for comfort.

It rings some bells.

Bells about etiquette in a place where presentation is half the fight to be acknowledged.

Another hum, this time followed by a drawn out sigh. The scrape of the other chair against the tiles is deafening in the quiet chamber, but Caleb sits as if he had no cares in the world.  
He foregoes Common without a second thought.

“Do you speak Zemnian?”

The man’s shoulders tense, his eyebrows curve upwards and there’s the slightest tilt to his head. The floor can only be so interesting, after all. Now _the wall_ … much more enticing.

“I’ll take that as a maybe.”

His accent is thick in his Common, and it serves its purpose well— the prisoner’s eyes finally dart in Caleb’s direction, with the intent of stealing a passing glance at whatever _krick_ spoke the tongue of the Zemni Fields, only to end up absolutely glued on the figure sitting in front of him instead.

In all his grimy glory, a human in faded breeches and a shirt so worn that it just could not have been white in the past, with a halo of frazzled copper hair that really needed a wash to complete the _questionable contact_ look that Caleb was clearly, _absolutely_ , **_obviously_** aiming for when he followed Essek into the dungeon 42 minutes ago.

They stay there for another while, and Caleb counts the seconds it takes for the prisoner to go back to the oh so interesting wall.  
He stands up at 382, and the eyes follow him.

He can’t help it, the disgustingly dreamy smile that comes with knowing he’s being watched, a predator circling its prey with the pressure of someone who’s got all the time in the world. He’s in no rush. He’s learning, and it takes him five walks around the chamber to finally catch something.

“You know, I’ve been wondering— _why_ , instead of someone more seasoned, they sent… you? Such a fresh face. Accomplished in your studies, I’m sure. They cherry pick with the utmost diligence back in Rexxentrum, after all. But still… so young for such a thing.”

Caleb stands to the back of him, hands gingerly placed on his shoulders. He can feel the tension under his thumbs, every shift in his posture and every shuddering exhale. And the man’s bindings look so _terribly_ tight, don’t they?

It’s a reaction more than anything else, bending forward, and now his lips are against the shell of the prisoner’s ear, and it’s as if he were back in the marble floored basement, sharing his own secrets with people who had just spilled everything in return.

“Shackles are like a breeze compared to the stitches, _aren’t they_.”

The man’s face visibly tilts upwards, and the clack of the boots as Caleb steps away does nothing to break the silent tension that emanates from the prisoner.  
Caleb counts the steps he takes as he waits for any lingering doubts and questions to settle. It’s a long shot, or maybe it’s not a long shot at all, but he dreams about them too often to forget what your skin turns to when it’s stretched and etched with things that don’t belong.

“I know you’re good at this, I’m sure. He thinks so too, for you to be here.”

He circles back to the chair, sits down slowly and sighs again, feeling the weight of the man’s gaze on him. Good, _perfect_ , even— poor little prisoner, looking right at your inquirer as he rolls up his grimy sleeves, his icy glare catching your own inquisitive eyes that now widen with realization and fear.

And Caleb, Caleb _smiles._

“I want you to know I’m good at this too.”

**-**

One hour later, the silence has upgraded to whimpers.

The captive’s hands are unbound, now, clasped tightly in his lap, poised and proper and tensing every time Caleb’s ghostly touch traces the clean faded scars. He has just finished recalling a particularly bad day, when a shard had buried so deep into his flesh that he had passed out from the pain as they tried to remove it.

“A real problem here is that there’s so much hassle with regenerating limbs. Has he ever asked you to rip yourself out of restraints?”

The whiplash of the bloody mental image paired with the feather-light touched on his skin makes the man shudder, and he shoots another look in the hopes of catching _something_ in Caleb’s face, something that would dispel the terrifying buildup of torture methods that have been relayed to him throughout the interview, in the hopes of washing them off as bluffing.  
Caleb just sighs in disappointment.

“Denial can only help you for so long, my friend. And it will make things so much worse, you know that. Come on. _You know that._ ”

Caleb leans forward, and their foreheads touch. His voice is a whisper, intimate, laced with the kindness of someone you want to trust, because they _will_ get you out of here if you just help them out first. A far away voice rings with laugher in the back of his head, and the crystal clear memory bubbles up in all its light hearted mockery. ~~_Oh, Bren, you’re playing too nice today!_~~   
He welcomes it with a smile.

“Tell me. Do you remember a time when you were scared for your life? The strain as you tried to resist, do you remember?”

There’s just the slightest of nods in acknowledgement. Caleb takes it and rolls with it, unfolds his own fears in return for knowing the other’s. He feels his eyes sting with unshed tears, and he has to keep himself from grimacing— he _hates_ how good he is at this.

“When I woke up and didn’t remember, I thought it was a blessing.”

The prisoner’s lips are shut in a tight thin line, and it would be so easy, so easy to just start snapping fingers to get them to open, but Caleb knows, _Caleb knows_ it won’t work, that this is a matter of patience and exhaustion as he peels off the layers that keep this pawn grounded. In a different time, with the recklessness of youth, he wouldn’t have been so keen on waiting.

“Not remembering the pain is a privilege, makes the next challenges easier to face. It takes away the _fear_.”

His hands cup the man’s face, all kindness and empathy, with the slightest glimmer of hope in his glossy blue eyes as his shoulders slump with a wave of _sadness_ , and Gods forgive him, he _loves_ how good he is at this.

“There’s no forgetting what _I’ll_ do if you don’t start talking.”

**Author's Note:**

> Needless to say I have... thoughts. About Caleb. And about Bren. And how much of a good cop you can really be if you're torturing Empire dissidents. Hm.


End file.
